Chapter 2: Ghostly Hustles and Unfinished Business

Unfortunately, the $80 I’d earned for grave-crying was almost gone. Being broke is rough.

Between hospital copays and takeout, my bank account was on life support.

Not long after, my senior messaged me again. The last client was so impressed by my crying, he’d recommended me to a friend. Was I interested in another gig?

I hesitated, remembering my last supernatural mishap, but the lure of easy money was too strong.

Last time? Wasn’t that when I cried at the wrong grave and summoned Michael?

I could practically hear Michael snickering in the background.

What if I summoned another ghost? That thought gave me pause. But then I figured—why not just bring Michael along? If any ghosts showed up, he’d sense them.

I figured, worst case, I’d have a ghostly bodyguard. Best case, I’d double my pay.

So I replied enthusiastically: "I can play the trumpet too! Can I get an extra twenty for that?" (The trumpet is often played at American funerals.)

I’d played in marching band in high school, so it wasn’t a total lie. Plus, who could resist a bonus?

My senior paused, then said he’d check with the client.

A few minutes later, he texted back: "Client says yes. Bring your own trumpet."

The next day, Michael—willingly or not—came with me to the job site.

He grumbled about being my sidekick, but I could tell he was secretly curious.

My senior was already there, along with a few other young folks.

Everyone looked tired, but there was a sense of camaraderie—like we were all in the same weird boat.

Turned out, we were all acting school grads, all down on our luck.

We swapped stories about failed auditions and side hustles, laughing at our own misfortune.

Everyone sighed: once-glamorous theater kids, now earning a living by grave-crying.

Someone joked about adding "professional mourner" to their LinkedIn. We all laughed, but it stung a little.

After some commiseration, the senior started recording. First, the instrument players gave a soulful performance, then we all wailed at the grave in unison.

It was like a flash mob for the afterlife—equal parts moving and absurd.

The whole thing was so organized, I almost felt like we were putting on a major art show.

I half expected someone to hand out programs and popcorn.

I was extra careful, signaling Michael to check for ghosts before I started squeezing out tears.

He gave me a thumbs-up, invisible to everyone else. I took a deep breath and let the waterworks flow.

After work, a guy came over to chat and asked if we could add each other on Instagram.

He had that struggling-actor charm—messy hair, nervous smile. I almost said yes out of habit.

Since we were in the same industry, I was about to agree when Michael floated behind me and whispered, "Don’t add him."

His tone was serious, almost jealous. I raised an eyebrow.

I shot him a look: Why not?

He leaned in, dropping his voice. "I floated behind him earlier and saw he’s chatting up several girls at once. Total player."

I stifled a laugh. Who knew ghosts could be such busybodies?

Wow. A gossip ghost.

I made a mental note to never gossip in front of him again.

The guy, seeing I hadn’t answered, waved his phone: "Miss, want to add Instagram?"

He looked hopeful, but I shook my head.

I put my phone away: "Sorry, I have a boyfriend."

Michael smirked behind me, clearly pleased.

On the way home, I happily spent my new $100 on pizza.

I ordered extra cheese and pepperoni, because if you can’t have a boyfriend, at least you can have carbs.

Michael sat beside me, watching every bite. I could see his Adam’s apple bob a few times.

He looked so longingly at the pizza, I almost felt bad.

I lowered my voice to tease him: "Want some?"

I waved a slice in his direction, grinning.

Michael nodded his ghostly head enthusiastically.

He licked his lips, eyes wide.

"Heh, you can’t eat!" I said, popping another slice into my mouth and chewing extra loudly.

I waggled the slice at him for emphasis, savoring the cheesy goodness.

What a gluttonous ghost!

He pouted, crossing his arms like a sulky kid.

Michael pouted, "Careful or you’ll get indigestion... and end up in the hospital again."

He said it with a straight face, but I could tell he was enjoying my discomfort.

...

That really killed my appetite for the rest of the day.

I pushed the pizza box away, groaning. Thanks, Michael.

Back home, I ignored Michael and played League of Champions (think League of Legends, but copyright-safe) by myself.

I cranked up my headset and lost myself in the game, hoping to forget about ghosts and graveyards.

After the season ended, my hard-earned rank dropped from Platinum to Gold. So unfair!

I stared at the screen in disbelief, mourning my lost status.

Michael squatted behind the sofa, watching me play. My hand felt off; I lost every match and got more and more frustrated.

He offered silent commentary, occasionally pointing out my mistakes. Not helpful.

In my last game, after being ganked by the enemy jungler over and over, I just gave up and played like a bot. Of course, I lost again.

I slumped in my chair, defeated. Michael finally spoke up.

Michael finally commented, "See that enemy jungler?"

He pointed at the screen, eyebrow raised.

"?"

I glanced over, confused.

"He’ll never be able to repay the debt he owes you."

He grinned, clearly pleased with his wordplay. I groaned.

...

After yesterday’s gig, I had nothing to do today.

I wandered around the apartment, restless. Michael watched me pace, amused.

With time to kill, I told Michael to bring out his wish list so we could cross off a few more.

I figured, why not make some progress? Maybe then he’d finally move on.

I picked two:

1. Successfully climb to the top of a mountain.

2. Try rock climbing.

I eyed the list, then glanced at Michael. He looked hopeful.

Honestly, this was definitely the wish list of someone who’d been sickly in life.

Most people dream of travel or fame. Michael just wanted to feel alive.

Fine, I told myself, consider it a good deed.

I sighed and grabbed my keys. "Let’s do this."

There was a rock climbing gym nearby. I took him there, then slipped out while the trainer tried to upsell me on lessons.

I pretended to be interested, then made a beeline for the smoothie bar.

I bought a milkshake and waited outside. Gotta say, ghosts are efficient—before I’d finished my drink, Michael was back.

He looked a little winded, which was impressive for someone without lungs.

But instead of looking excited like after the roller coaster, he looked kind of disappointed.

He kicked at the ground, shoulders slumped.

I asked, "What’s wrong?"

I offered him a sip of my milkshake, forgetting for a moment he couldn’t drink.

He sighed, "Like this, I can’t feel the thrill of rock climbing at all."

His voice was tinged with longing. I felt a pang of guilt.

Well, yeah. You’re a ghost. Weightless. What did you expect?

I tried to comfort him: "Don’t worry, you can try it for real when you move on."

I gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, which my hand passed right through.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up: "When we climb the mountain, can you go with me?"

He looked at me with those big, hopeful eyes. I hesitated.

"?"

I have to climb with you, too?

My calves ached just thinking about it.

"If you go with me, at least I can feel some of the struggle and fun. If I go alone, I just float to the top. It’s boring."

He pouted, making it impossible to say no.

Honestly, I wanted to refuse.

But this sly ghost had the nerve to turn on the charm!

He batted his lashes, and I caved. Again.

Secretly, I scolded myself—so easily swayed by a pretty face!

I resolved to work on my willpower. Tomorrow.

Michael kept pace with me, floating just behind. Halfway up, I was already exhausted and flopped onto a rock to rest. Seeing me sweating, he drifted over to cool me off: "Still hot?"

He hovered close, radiating a chill that felt amazing after the climb.

I have to admit, his icy aura was instantly refreshing.

I closed my eyes, savoring the breeze. For once, having a ghost around was a plus.

But... aren’t you a bit too close?

I opened my eyes to find him inches away, his gaze intense.

Michael sat right in front of me, our eyes meeting, noses almost touching.

My heart did a weird little flip. This was not in the ghost manual.

For some reason, my face, which had just cooled off, was suddenly burning up again.

I turned away, hoping he didn’t notice the blush creeping up my cheeks.

From this close, I could see his eyes were a warm brown, almost amber, sparkling. His lashes trembled slightly—clearly not corporeal, but somehow they made my heart flutter.

I scooted back, flustered: "Why are you so close?!"

I tried to sound tough, but my voice cracked.

He peered at me, then poked my cheek with a finger: "You look... like you’re blushing."

He grinned, teasing.

"It’s just the heat!"

I fanned myself, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Oh, good." He withdrew his hand and added, "Don’t fall for me, there’s no future in it."

He winked, clearly enjoying himself.

"Don’t make me smack you."

I threatened him with my water bottle. He laughed, the sound echoing in the mountain air.